


The Way of Things

by ponchard



Series: More Dalish Tales [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adamant Fortress, Archery, Beating Plowshares Into Swords, Canon-Typical Tragedy, Canon-Typical Violence, Childbearing, Dalish Lore, Dalish Mistellings, Dalish Origin, Extremely Dubious Morality Tale, Fire, Gen, Just-So Stories, Kidnapping, Learning All The Wrong Lessons, Missing Multiple Points, Missing The Point, More Dalish Tales, One Shot, Survival, War, Warmongering, Weaponsmithing, flipping tables, for full effect, getting increasingly more annoyed at the clan's antics, muttering are you kidding me right now, picture Sylaise Mythal and Ghilan'nain just offscreen, while June is confused but he'll take it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponchard/pseuds/ponchard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Adamant, old Auntie Lavellan tells the story of the elves who thanked June.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way of Things

"'How do we kill it?' Tell me, does the idea of diplomacy ever cross your mind?"

"The idea of _big, buggy-eyed nightmare monster_ ever cross yours?"

Somewhere in the middle of Sera's sentence, Cole began whispering "yes, yes, but this one deserved better. An elegant death."

Auntie Lavellan kept silent, though she nodded at Cole. Tilting her head up once, then down.

Solas harrumphed.

"Ooo, ooo, that's an elfy word I know!" Sera scrunched up her nose and pushed a finger against her forehead. "In the olden days when everything was perfect and all the baby elves were serious little Solases, that word meant," her voice deepened, " _You walk a dangerous path, vhenan-_ " she started snorting.

" _-and the only way I can see your arse is by following you down it!_ " Cole paused. "I'm not sure that's a good reason to follow someone."

"Friggen joke-stealing, demon-y... ugh!" Sera stared angrily in the opposite direction to Cole, who seemed to be deciding whether he should smile or frown. Auntie Lavellan chuckled. "Truly, our ancestors were poets."

An unsubtle silence. "Have I ever told you the story of the elves who thanked June?"

"I suppose 'you' is the ancient Dalish word for 'the person I intend to argue with indirectly'?"

"Hush, my boy, and maybe you'll find out."

Solas sighed.

In the olden days, when everything was perfect, but long before any serious little Solases were born, a clan of elves walked stranded on the world. Now this was a very, very long time ago, even before your old Auntie Lavellan. In those days, there were no cities, no civilization. These elves lived much like we Dalish do today, though they knew very little about the world. Even the world knew nothing about the way of things.

So when a bitter cold rose out of the rivers, the world was ashamed. On the breeze and in the clouds, it whispered its regret. But the clan could not understand the words, and they shook with anger. To this day, we still shake when the cold rises from the water, or leaps up out of caves.

However, their anger did not make them much warmer, so they prayed to the Creators for aid. As they prayed, they traveled, and by and by they came across a pile of flint, resting on a nest of fallen trees. The cracked trunks twisted, twined through each other, under and over. As if they'd been woven together by some great hand.

The clan recognized the answer to their prayers, and they gathered the wood and flint together. They chipped away at the flint and stripped the dry branches, throwing away the pieces that were too curved. When the flint was sharp and the wood straight, they made spears. Now armed, they attacked a nearby clan and drove them away. They took the clan's furs, and they slept in their shelters. Hidden away, the cold air could no longer touch them. They were content. So they prayed to June, and thanked him for granting them spears.

Some time later, the mothers of the clan began to have trouble with childbirth. This was before they learned the plants that soothe and the flowers that staunch, and they had no fire to cleanse their blades. They lost both mothers and children in those times. As the years went on, they started to fall short of hunters. Besides this, the women of the clan grew weary of tragedy, despairing more with each loss.

So the mothers raised their voices to the gods, in prayer. They prayed for mercy and they wept, and by and by an answer came. In their travels, the clan came across a young elf, an orphan. A midwife and a woodcarver, recently made motherless, he wandered the forest alone.

The clan recognized the Creators' gift, and took in the orphaned boy. They spoke to him and examined his herbs, turning their gaze to the ways of roots and leaves. His carvings, too, small wooden bowls and flutes, were laid before them. After examining all these things, they set to work.

With his guidance, they picked pods that eased pain, seeds that relaxed body and mind. Using his bowls, they ground the herbs together, checking the effects from time to time. After he recovered, they handed him spears, for him to carve channels into the wood. When the spears were done, they rolled them through the paste, grooves grabbing it tight. So armed, they hunted for a clan with many young hunters, and found one. 

They struck in the night. The youngest hunters, those barely weaned, they scratched with their spears. The blood welled up, and medicine flowed down, slowing their arms and silencing their cries. They returned to camp with children to replace those they'd lost, and their numbers swelled tenfold. With their future secure, they raised a prayer to June, in gratitude for granting them poison.

As the years passed, the clan flourished. However, their good fortune turned when they encountered a skillful clan. The other clan had learned to weave fabrics and work leather, and they made clothes of great beauty. Their tailors worked as if blessed by the Hearthkeeper herself. Try as they might, they could not surpass the skillful clan's work. Their young hunters were inspired by the craftsmanship. As they dreamed, they recalled how they had come to join the clan. Now old enough to slip out unnoticed, they began to leave. Even the daughters and the sons, those who had lived in the clan since birth, followed their friends to the skillful clan.

The elders awoke to find their camp emptier than it had ever been. Alarmed by this turn of events, they prayed to the Creators for guidance. They sought them out earnestly, spending days and nights raising their voices. At last, a flock of dazzling jungle birds appeared in their midst! Red, orange, blue, their plumage rippled in the sun like iridescent blossoms. Never before had such beautiful birds walked the land, for they were newly made. Around them, strange worms twitched, wrapped in fibrous cocoons. A single halla stood before the beasts. Its horns twisted higher than any ordinary halla, and it tilted an ear at the elves before bolting into the mists.

The elders recognized the work of the gods when they saw it, and they captured the birds and the worms. The birds they plucked for their vivid feathers, and they soaked the worms until they softened and unraveled. The feathers, they bound to the ends of their spears. The thread, they pulled into shimmering bowstrings, thin as the space between two thoughts.

Thus armed, they attacked the other clan. Though the young hunters tried to help, they had left their spears behind. From the hills, the archers shot their poisoned arrows. Yes, and from the rocks the arrows flew. When they landed, their enemies fell. Weakened, fighting sleep, unable even to run. With volley after volley, they slaughtered the skillful clan, and they killed the young deserters. After their victory, they took the fine clothes from the bodies, wearing them as trophies. Now satisfied, they prayed to June with a prayer of thanks, thanking him for granting them arrows.

"Later, they sent away the surplus garments, trading them for more weapons. For they had finally learned the way of things." Auntie Lavellan picked up her bedroll and started to lay it out.

Solas' eyes narrowed, puzzled. "That is the end?"

"Yes."

"I..." he scratched behind his ear. "I do not pretend to be an authority on Dalish legends. But are you _sure_ that is the intended moral of the tale?"

The inquisitor shrugged, and climbed into bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Auntie Lavellan's default assumption is that everyone she meets is younger than her. It's usually accurate. She interprets Solas' shady behavior, hesitation about the relationship, and unpredictable hot-buttons as "youthful mood swings" or insecurities about the age gap (heh). 
> 
> Even after Trespasser, she still thinks of him as younger in spirit... especially since his post-Trespasser behavior is literally _'k, new plan: I'll constantly show up on her dream driveway like a lovestruck teenager, as if she was the one that broke it off and not me. Perfect. She'll definitely believe I've been around for millennia if I pull that move. How do you feel about ignoring my ancient wisdom now v-v-vhenan?_
> 
> *drives away in his mom's car to avoid confrontation*


End file.
